


Versatile

by Siera_Writes



Category: Blur
Genre: D/s elements, Kissing, M/M, Smut, relationship exploration
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-17
Updated: 2017-05-17
Packaged: 2018-11-01 22:27:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10931295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siera_Writes/pseuds/Siera_Writes
Summary: Damon snarls inwardly, a little pissed. He'd been hoping for some time to himself before they go on stage, but evidently he's not getting that. "What's the matter, Alex." It's barely a question, more a string of barked syllables, which is rude but he isn't feeling charitable.





	Versatile

**Author's Note:**

> This took me far too long to write - fought me tooth and nail for every word. But yeah, it is what it is. Not sure I'm happy with it. It was started as - and was intended to be - a Dalex fic, but as time went on it just steered further and further away from it so I just went with it. You'll probably see that when you're reading. You might even find the point where I just gave up on that and went Gramon whole hog.
> 
> In regards to the content, in my heart of hearts, I as a writer have the headcanon that if they got together in the summer before Graham went to college, they would've done this already. Pretty sure that as domineering as Damon could be, he still cares way too much about Graham to never defer to him. Which is not what I'm saying the case is here with them never having done what they do. You get the idea, though, I hope. Plus, Damon's a massive softie, and Graham can be stubborn.
> 
> What I'm saying is that they have a pretty balanced power dynamic in real life and in my ideal headcanon. Anyways, hope it's not too out of character. Enjoy! (Unbetaed as per usual)

"Oh fuck off, Alex." Damon brusquely pushes past where the bassist lounges in the doorway to the dressing room, like he belongs there. Damon's a jittery mess in the last half hour before performances, stomach roiling and fingers curling into fists, the whole of him cold, shivering, unable to get warm. He finds it especially difficult to shrug off Alex's cool when he's like this. He gesticulates behind himself blindly, flipping off the other man whilst striding across the room to the small sofa. It's a hideous orange colour, a hold-over from at least two decades previous, fading, with stumpy, burnished chrome-effect legs, only lifting it an inch or two above the ground, but it looks comfortable enough.

He sits gingerly, knees apart, elbows planted firmly, forehead resting heavily on the heels of his palms, jumping his legs up and down in an incessant rhythm, expecting Alex to have stalked off in that way of his: silently, unaffected. When he glances sideways, under his wrist, he's surprised and a little unsettled to see he's still there, cigarette hanging from his lips, fringe handing over his eyes. The light in the room is a bluish white - harsh - while the corridor beyond is dark and dank, brickwork bare, the mouldering red of it like the oesophagus of some beast. All in all, Damon's not feeling too great; he's twitchy, on edge, and maybe he shouldn't have taken what he's taken on an empty stomach.

Damon snarls inwardly, a little pissed. He'd been hoping for some time to himself before they go on stage, but evidently he's not getting that. "What's the matter, Alex." It's barely a question, more a string of barked syllables, which is rude but he isn't feeling charitable. He barely knows Alex, even after the last few months of spending time constantly with his bandmates: doesn't know that he ever will.

They're similar creatures - irascible, tempestuous, prone to flights of fancy - but they also keep some parts of themselves back. He understands why, when Graham went to college - after they made a strange sort of pact that they were both okay to see other people in the meantime, as a precaution against loneliness, to ease the heartache of willingly leaving your first love, your childhood sweetheart, the one who comes closest to completing you - that he chose Alex. The man's tall, and broad in the shoulder, infuriatingly pretty - Damon sympathises - and he won't deny that upon first seeing him a little thrill went through him, looking at him, scanning up and down with interest, being met with the same response. And Graham knew full-well, if the little smirk he had was anything to go by. Alex brought out a little more of the rogue in Graham, a little more of the coquettish side he usually restrained.

But Damon's never gone out of his way to do anything more than flirt with Alex, and he with Damon - really, their affections lie with Graham. As do Dave's, Damon wouldn't be surprised to find out. Graham's the glue holding them together. He's the one who brought them into each others' orbits, and his pull's just too strong to escape from.

Alex sighs past his cigarette, ragged streaks of smoke issuing from between his lips, and he pushes himself away from the doorway with his shoulder, nudging the door closed behind him as he walks towards Damon, looking oddly dubious as he does so, face inscrutable - enough that Damon feels antsy, nerves swelling in his stomach. He slowly pulls back from his hands, hair falling back into place after having been threaded through his splayed fingers.

Damon slowly sinks back into the soft back of the sofa, pulling his elbows up with him, trying to give the illusion of casualness, while his eyes bore into the other man, following his every movement with little-concealed wariness. Alex stops, about a metre from the sofa, cigarette held in the crook of two fingers, left arm across his stomach and his hand clasping his elbow. He looks perturbed, like he hadn't quite intended to end up there, or maybe that he doesn't know why he's in the room with Damon at all.

Damon watches with burning eyes as Alex scuff the toe of his boot along the grain of the cheap Lino flooring, distaste curling at his lips. "God this place is a dump." He takes a long drag of his smoke, huffing a short, humourless laugh, seeming relieved when Damon offers one in return. They still haven't reached a level of notoriety and fame wherein venue owners go out of their way for them; indeed, they're still a fairly underground group, playing more frequently at pubs and art colleges than anywhere close to being stadia, though they have the hunger to get there, and the prerequisite ego.

Damon keeps his eyes on Alex like he's a wounded animal - the closing of the door, the close proximity, being here at all when Damon had previously asked for all of them to leave him be, just until they went on - means that he has no idea what might happen. So he's waiting. It seems most sensible.

"I need to talk with you about something." Alex's dithering had perhaps made that clear enough, but the hesitation speaks volumes. Damon narrows his eyes, just enough that Alex's stance changes, weight shifting to his back foot. This isn't about intra-band politics, or the direction they should be steering it in: this is about- "Graham. I need to talk with you about Graham."

"What about Gra?" He purposefully uses the pet-name as a pointed affirmation of his standing with the guitarist - closer, and for longer - and because his jaw is clenched with both his nerves for the performance, and worried anticipation for what Alex is going to disclose, so he could barely get those syllables past his lips. Damon wouldn't really have pegged himself as the jealous sort when he first got into a relationship with Graham, but a combination of having only really had a summer together before they split for college, and just how little meaningful time they've had together due to constant work and being around others, mean that they haven't had a proper talk yet. They haven't discussed their own relationship, and where they want to take it. Whether they're both satisfied with it.

Damon thinks they're both happy, but Alex's statements have hit home, 'cause there's been an edge to some of his and Graham's interactions on occasion - not angry, not scared - but like apprehension, like there's something Graham wants to tell him but never feels comfortable enough to.

And that terrifies him.

So it's understandable why Damon leaps to his feet, high on fear, high on adrenaline, high in the euphemistic sense, and brought low by self-loathing, and self-consciousness.

Alex steps back.

Damon tilts his head, a frisson of satisfaction tumbling down his spine and slicking his stomach so he feels even less grounded than before. Alex's eyes dart over his person, trying to divine his mood, ostensibly, but it's not like Damon himself knows; right now, he's as capricious and changeable as an April afternoon. He grins, a wild one, he knows - all teeth, shark-like - and his stance is casual in a way which allows his weight to be very central, easily shifted. It's a bit of bluster, in all honesty - he's good at running due to years of playing football, and touring the country with frenetic, chaotic performances each evening can keep you fit - but Alex is taller than him, frame bulkier than him, and he's been doing almost the same as Damon every night.

So if it comes down to a scrum, Damon certainly doesn't have the advantage. Besides, he does like to think they're friendly enough, if not quite friends yet, and he kind of enjoys having a band. Damon scans over Alex, taking in the build of him again, surprised at a little shiver that goes through him. He's mindful of the hands on the battered clock face circling closer to seven o'clock. He's also taken with how similar this is in terms of body language to how his encounters with Graham tend to start, when they register each other's intent, only those are after the shows, when they have excess energy to burn but Damon isn't feeling sick. It's fascinating. He wonders if Alex feels it like he does.

He pitches his voice soft, dangerous. "C'mon, Alex. What did you want to tell me?" The bassist seems to shake himself, hair glossy in the cool light, eyes falling heavily on Damon's face, and Damon thinks - not for the first time, but less idly, more consciously - he's beautiful.

Alex pulls himself up to stand tall, and proud, though his hackles are still up, guarded. "Graham talked with me, about when you two were together." The implication of quite what Alex means by 'together' is heavily evident, and Damon's caught feeling vulnerable, but unsurprised. "And I think you really need to discuss what you... do with him."

"... What the fuck?" Is he implying...

Alex's eyes go wide, apologetic, almost, hands flying forward with his fingers spread open. "No, my god, I didn't phrase that well at all!" He takes stock of himself, straightens before looking more thoughtful, and harried. Trying to get his thoughts together at speed. "Right, Damon..." He looks embarrassed. "Graham and I were together, as you know." Damon nods measuredly. "Well, Graham and I. We were... versatile." Alex pitches the last word as though it's a question, cringing at his own phrasing. Damon laughs sharply and quirks an eyebrow, taking cold satisfaction from how Alex visibly squirms.

"Versatile?" Damon snorts.

"Yeah." Alex crosses his arms emphatically. He sighs.

"Look, Alex - what are you getting at?" Damon's eyes keep skating to the clock - inadvertently, yes, but he doesn't wilfully stop himself. Fifteen minutes. Fuck.

Alex drags his fringe from his eyes with a sudden, jolting movement. "Fuck's sake, Damon. Stop being an obstinate twat. Yes, versatile. You know, Graham and I would swap who topped depending on how we felt, and we always enjoyed it." He eyes Damon darkly, eyebrow raised imperiously. "Graham would say, sometimes, how he wanted to swap with you-" He holds out his hand, one finger pointing at the ceiling, silencing Damon as he shifts forward, mouth open to interject. "Not because he didn't enjoy it, but because he thought sometimes you needed it."

Alex relaxes his stance, watching somewhat owlishly as Damon splutters. He's never really considered... They haven't ever really had the time to talk about it... Well they probably have, but it's quite a topic to work into conversation... Or is it? Damon's not sure, now. You should talk about things in a relationship, he's always stood by that philosophy. So why haven't they talked about... that?

Damon looks up from his stunned reverie, mouth still agape, to see Alex smirking with satisfaction, not in a cruel way, more like he's proud he's shown Damon something important, something of worth. He tried to collect his jumbled thoughts together, eyes pressed closed, jumping on the balls of his feet, feeling like the whole of him is thrumming. Stomach's roiling, nerves flooding him, but it's mingled with a touch of arousal now.

Splintered images dart through his mind's eye - he's always been the one to take the initiative; he's the one who pounces on Graham, and Graham's the one who gasps, arches into him, writhes under his weight. Damon takes care of him, always has, but now all he can see is Graham above him, his arms held still effortlessly, not having to think, just surrendering- "What do you mean?" His chest's a bit tight, breath hitching. Alex notices it, flicks a glance up and down him swiftly, but besides the cursory one-over, there isn't any hunger there. He smiles warmly, a little sadly. Damon just shakes his head in a little, aborted movement, still shocked. "What do you think he meant?"

"Graham's as protective of you as you are of him. You don't know how often he talked about you..." Alex seems to collect himself, as though breaking free of a trance. "It's nearly time to go on." He strides to the doorway, looking more like a silhouette as he steps into the dark of the corridor. "He wants to help you, you just need to let him."

"Wait!" Damon rushes to Alex as he leaves, grabs him by the shoulder with unwitting strength, pulling him round to face him at a slight angle. His words rush out, thoughts competing to escape, so he doesn't get very far "How do I-?"

Alex smiles. "Just..." A tired sigh. "Watch how he moves. You'll get what I mean." He pats Damon on the shoulder, and head off to wherever his cubicle of a dressing room is, leaving Damon reeling.

\---

Damon retches about four times before he gets on stage. He feels dreadful, and it's compounded with his consciously heightened awareness of Graham. He's watching him more intently that he thinks he might ever have done, and that's saying something. He's trying to make sense of what Alex said - watch him move? - what does that mean?

They finally clatter out of the wings, piling onto the stage in a perfect state of disorder, Damon pulling on his attitude like it's a bespoke coat. It usually fits without thinking; the sets would fly by in a rush of colour and euphoria, ears ringing and tremors wracking him. But this time it's a layer on his perceptions, merely an affectation. His eyes keep drifting of their own volition; the whole of him is attuned to the guitarist, watching, attempting to discern what Alex meant.

They're quite far through their setlist - a song or two from the end - when he sees it. Damon's exhausted, sweating horribly - they all are. The lights are bright on his face, bleaching the crowd of any semblance of individuality; people are a hulking mass of shrieking, and flailing limbs, high on their own exhaustion and probably more. It's a wild feeling, facing down the beast, and as Damon takes a breather during a solo, back of his forearm pressed to his forehead to shield his vision from the blinding lights trained on his face, he looks across to Graham.

Graham's got his back to Damon, just feeling the music. His eyes are closed: he looks like he's in pained ecstasy. The tendons of his left arm stand proud under his skin as he holds the shapes of the chords, and the muscles of his right arm flex with each vicious stroke. He's curled slightly over his guitar, back rounding, and under his tight tee, Damon can see the planes of his back, the narrowing of his waist, stupidly, ridiculously, wonderfully slender. But then Graham pulls back with a final slash of his arm, head thrown back, neck bared, and in the sudden, oppressive silence, Damon feels the audience hold their breath just as he does: enraptured.

In the quiet, Damon feel himself panting as though from a distance - like there's a slight disconnect between himself and his consciousness. Graham's not wearing his glasses, and he's always looked more brutish like that, more aggressive, and less like the slim, nervous boy Damon grew up with. The audience are cheering, whooping, and Graham is stalking forward to his pedals, looking irked, a slight, sullen thunderousness in his passage across the stage, and Damon almost melts. He tears his gaze away, staring straight into the spotlights until his vision is dyed with neon blue after-images that it takes twenty seconds to blink away, finding his hands clasped around the microphone stand like he'd fall otherwise.

Damon laughs nervously under his breath, his hands unsteady as he pulls them away from the black metal, wincing at the tack of sweat left behind. He feels swirly, like he's floating. He's surprised that purely looking at Graham - giving him him full consideration - when he was in his element, was just as intoxicating as it was. Damon's heart was already racing, stomach unsettled, but now it's worse, and better.

It keeps playing in his mind - how Graham's bearing is completely different in the heat of performing; instead of curling in on himself, limbs gangling and slender, looking nervy and coltish, his shoulders are broad and only emphasised by his trim waist, scapulae evident under the tight material and highlighted by the curve of his spine, moving around the stage with single-minded purpose. God, Damon's fucked.

Damon blinks, wrenching his gaze away with a desperation that leaves him wanting for breath. They continue through the last songs, concluding another typically hyperactive and riotous set.

\---

They leave the stage much as they arrived, falling into the wings, then into the already-crowded backstage on shaky legs, with blood thrumming under their skin, only significantly less nervous now, mostly euphoric. Damon hangs back: now he's started looking, he can't stop. It's compounded with the aftereffects of performance - all his legs seem to want to do is collapse from under him, leaving him at Graham's feet - and Damon wants it too, but not here.

He tries to catch Graham's eye as subtly as he can, which is weird. Normally, he'd march over there and have his arms flung around Graham's neck immediately, nuzzle at the firm muscle and along the knobbles of vertebrae there, but he's made meek by desire of a kind he's never really considered. He wants Graham to push his down and fuck him. He almost feels like marching over to Alex and cursing him.

Damon ends up sort of circling around to Graham without really realising quite what he's doing. Now the after-show adrenaline has burnt out of his blood, he's left with a slow-burn of damped arousal in the pit of his belly. His eyes haven't left Graham's figure for a long time, taking in every detail. It's odd - how the realisation has leant a slight unfamiliarity to Graham's features and form, allowing Damon to try relearning him. He notes the swells of his biceps, the lines of sinew in his forearms, and the tendons in his hands.

Graham lights a cigarette, lazily taking a drag, cheeks hollowing, before letting his arm fall to his side, idly watching the goings-on of the partying, oblivious to how Damon's eyes are affixed so intently to watch as he simply exhales, blasé, smoke curling from between his pursed lips. It's sensual in its genuineness, its lack of affectation. Damon has to bite back a whimper.

He continues his drift towards Graham. Who turns to him, smile growing steadily, and warmly, so Damon's stomach flip-flops - Graham's gorgeous, so gorgeous, with his features lit up like that - and he falters in his steps, feeling lost.

He must look it, too, cause Graham's features drain of levity, concern overtaking and twisting them, which stings Damon, makes his heart lurch. His fault.

Graham steps towards him, hands contacting with Damon's bare upper arms, and he thrills at the touch, hairs on his arms standing on end like a sudden cool has breezed over him. Graham squints into his eyes, looks him up and down, but it's with worry rather than any sort of lust. "Are you...?" Graham's voice is hushed, the implication clear. Damon shakes his head rather dazedly, flicking his tongue over his lips to wet them, satisfaction a warm kernel within him when Graham watches him.

"No." He leans in, trying to implore Graham with his eyes, holding them wide and round. "Graham. Graham - please." He swallows past the sudden lump in his throat, flicks a wary look around them before he leans in close enough to Graham's ear that his lips brush against his lobe. He pitches his voice down, consciously, so it's velveteen and soft. "I need you to fuck me." He draws the fricative out, and as he leans away he notes the slight reddening of the skin above Graham's lovely, subtle cheekbones, the jump of a muscle in his jaw.

Damon's never said those words to him. They only realised their attraction was mutual a few weeks before Graham left for college, and each and every time they've had sex since it's been fumbles between shows, stolen moments in hotel rooms. They haven't spoken about things. Their dynamic. The status quo was assumed and retained for its ease and speed. And now Damon needs them to discuss it. But first he has to show Graham he wants it, and enthusiastically at that.

"Not here." Graham hisses it urgently, and Damon nods in assent. There's a pause, both of them waiting for the other to move - and then he realises; it's always him leading Graham, him prompting their liaisons. Not that Graham's passive at all, but that he's very happy letting Damon take the initiative.

He takes Damon's hand, looking him up and down, this time with barely tamped interest, a hint of confusion flitting across his features before it's chased away with dawning realisation, widening eyes, and a hitched breath. "Oh fuck, okay." Graham seems to shake himself, quickly staring deep into Damon's eyes until he feels like his soul's been bared, but he doesn't shy away.

Graham steps back and tilts away so he's facing the door to that dismal corridor; the one that leads to the dressing rooms, still eying him. He tugs their entwined hands and Damon moves, obliging. Graham gulps visibly, gaze darting back to where their fingers are locked, then up at Damon's face, scanning over, before he fully turns away and starts a determined march from the room, trying to be as mundane as possible, as he leads a very eager Damon into the dark clammy-bricked recesses, and beyond.

\---

As soon as they're in Graham's dressing room - even smaller than Damon's, more of a cubical with an even older sofa of the same design crammed into the corner and a small, chipped mirror slung onto the wall - Graham shuts the door tight, cursing the stiff locking mechanism, until, with a small hum of accomplishment, the door's secured. In this time, Damon's wandered the few feet further that take him into the epicentre of the narrow, windowless room, sofa brushing against the side of his calf.

Graham turns slowly, interest staining his features sharp, hungry. His brown eyes are growing dark with lust. He drags his eyes up and down Damon, slowly, consideringly, like he has all the time in the world. Damon feels himself trembling a little in anticipation, fingers flexing agitatedly at his sides, but he can't move: he's too busy waiting, and watching Graham for any tells.

Graham seems to come to a conclusion. He shifts his stance and crosses the two steps between them instantaneously, filling Damon's vision, staring hard. "Strip." Damon does, eagerly, tearing his tee over his head and extricating himself, reaching down to do his fly, knuckles bumping against Graham's flat stomach as he does so. He pulls his socks off, then his underwear, gritting his teeth against a hiss as his half-hard cock is released, until he's bared completely, feeling the heat of Graham's body, the gap between them mere inches.

Graham slowly raises his hand, backs of his fingers brushing up Damon's thigh, over the jut of his hipbone, trailing over his abdomen, his pectoral, catching his nipple so he has to sink his teeth into his lower lip, then Graham's cool digits spread out, fingertips skating oh so lightly over Damon's clavicle until his hand spans the space of much of Damon's left shoulder, thumb settling in the dip between his collar bones, the splay of his fingers tracing the curve of his shoulder. His hand remains heavy against Damon's skin, hot like a brand.

Graham tilts his head, watching as Damon's breaths come harder. His gut's swirling with want. He watches as a small hint of amusement tugs at the corner of Graham's lips, a cheeky devilment lighting up his dark eyes. His hand continues sliding up, until his fingers rest against the side of Damon's neck, his thumb on the soft, vulnerable flesh beneath his jaw. Damon inhales shakily, shivering as his pulse speeds noticeably against Graham's palm, making his smile morph into a smirk.

Finally, Graham moves his hand around until he cradles the back of Damon's skull, hair twisted in his fingers, leaning in as though to kiss him, before diverting at the last moment to speak into the shell of Damon's ear, much like Damon did to him before. His eyes flutter closed at the brush of his lips. "You want me to fuck you?" Damon groans, nods jerkily. His hands are fisted at his sides to stop himself for reaching out to touch Graham's strong waist, to be grounded by the contact. As it is, eyes pressed shut as though in pain, Damon's floating in a dearth of sensation that's just right to accentuate the sheer eroticism of Graham's words, his arch tone, how he's beginning to tug just slightly at his hair so Damon can feel it, and how his breath fans delicately across his ear. He smells of smoke and whiskey. "Okay." He pushes Damon to his knees, then steps away.

Damon collects himself, blinking his eyes open, the dingy light of the room too much for him after holding them shut, and with how blown his pupils must be. He shifts where he's knelt, feeling the pattern of the rug scoring imprints into his knees. He takes stock of himself first; how his arms are behind his back without thinking, right hand clasped around his left wrist, left hand balled so his nails press into the heel of his hand. His legs are spread slightly, and he's slightly hunched, like Graham's sheer presence was supporting him. His ribs are flexing rapidly, and his head's bowed.

He watches from underneath his brows as Graham putters around the small space, looking for things. He's still fully dressed, still appears reputable except for his erection pressing at the front of his jeans, could still walk out of the door and leave Damon aching, and he'd probably still be there when Graham returned. Graham makes a small noise of victory through his nose, walking back into Damon's line of sight lankily, casually. In his hand are a bottle of lube and a foil packet.

He drops them to the floor, so they fall on the rug with a muted thump. Damon's head lolls back as a finger gently pushes his chin up, and he sees adoration in Graham's eyes. Damon smiles back at him, warm, relaxed, like there's been a weight on his shoulders for the past while that he hadn't noticed until it was gone. Graham ushers him to a stand, skimming both palms up and over Damon's neck, then his ears, fingers open wide, before sinking his fingers into Damon's hair and leaning in to kiss him deep and sound, flicking his tongue along the seam of Damon's lips, and Damon immediately parts them, sucking at the tip. His hands come up to rest on Graham's waist of their own volition - more to stabilise Damon than staking any sort of claim.

Graham pulls away, hands still framing Damon's head, leaving Damon gasping, bereft. Graham chuckles softly, eyes tender, before pushing Damon backwards so he falls onto the sofa, adjusting so his feet hang off the edge. He's glad the sofa has no arms, otherwise neither of them could've lay on it lengthwise. He keeps staring at Graham, grinning delightedly as more and more of his pale skin is revealed. He isn't putting on a show, so it feels comfortable, normal, like when they first got together. He doesn't tan like Damon does. Graham looses an answering smile in kind.

He steps over Damon's haphazardly scattered garments, ducking to lift the bottle and the packet from the floor in a smooth sweep. "Nice." Graham grins at him. And then he sort of vaults onto the sofa, skin soft and smooth against Damon's as he straddles him. Damon shudders as Graham's left hand sweeps up his flank to his shoulder as he steadies and positions himself. Graham dips to leave a litany of kisses from his forehead to his cheeks, the corners of his mouth, his clavicles, each one chaste and light, tickling him when Graham's hair and long eyelashes brush unexpectedly.

Finally, Graham kisses him once on the lips, and looks down at him very seriously. "Don't think." Damon nods once, firmly.

Damon's hands are gathered together above his head, his spine arching slightly off the sofa, so his breaths come harder, feeling a solid grip secure his arms in place. He tries to dig his heels into the material of the sofa for a little more purchase, but he can't, his calves pressed into the material instead, so he lets out a small sound of frustration. Graham reacts by leaning down, until their chests are pressed together - Damon jolting as his cock presses against Graham's firm abdomen - pressing open-mouthed kisses against the side of Damon's neck.

Damon can't fight his eyes fluttering closed, and the moan that issues from him. There's increased pressure, a touch of pain that makes him feel hot all over, and a little wave of pleasure rolls through him as Graham sucks a bruise into his neck, low enough to be hidden by a polo shirt. Damon squirms as Graham repeats it on the other side, toes curling. He gasps when Graham draws away, dragging the edges of his teeth against the front of his neck.

Callused fingers drag down his stomach, making him twitch, then brush teasingly shy of Damon's crotch, crossing to his thigh, slipping down to the inner side and moving in tiny, tempting circles. Damon feels the sofa dip and shift as Graham repositions himself, shins now leaning a portion of his weight onto Damon's thighs. Combined with his arms being held, he's entirely pinned, so all he can do is hiss as Graham's finger begins circling his entrance playfully.

His arms are released briefly, the cap of the bottle clicks, and Damon listens to the swishing of the lube being spread and warmed between Graham's palms in circular motions. Damon's twitchy with want, blood hot in his veins, and his cock jumps at the ensuing shaky exhale of breath: Graham's touching himself. Damon imagines it - Graham's hand, broad and dextrous, coaxing himself to being hard. He's probably visualising Damon, visualising fucking him. Or maybe the sheer sight of him laid out and exposed to him, eyes closed and straining with his arms held self-imposed above his head for Graham - his Graham - is enough. He feels the shifting of Graham's hips in little staccato bursts. 

There's a pause as the packet tears, Graham biting back curses as he rolls the condom on, then another click, more lube being applied, and Damon's thrumming with anticipation. Graham moves back further, kneeling in the gap between Damon's thighs. He uses his left hand to nudge up Damon's right leg, and he eagerly copies with his left too. Graham slicks his fingers, then resumes circling Damon's entrance, but this time with intent.

When Graham pushes the first finger in, Damon pants. At the second, Damon's gasping loudly, and when Graham catches that particular spot with his fingertips, Damon cries out. He remains as still as he can manage, as he can bear, clutching at his elbows above his head, chest rising and falling fitfully. Graham bites him hard on the stomach, below his ribs, out of the blue, then sucks, and Damon can't help bucking. Graham pushes in a third finger, working and spreading his fingers, and Damon feels close, pleasure seeping into every fibre of him. His bruises throb with each heartbeat, but the sensation's bland compared to that of what Graham's doing to him.

Graham carefully pulls out, and Damon mewls at the loss. Graham's hands affix, hot and wide, to his hips, positioning him, and as he pushes in Damon groans at being penetrated, more deeply than with fingers. He can feel the push of Graham's ribs against his thighs, breaths heavy and quick. Their sweat on their skin mingles, and Graham pushes all the way in slowly, so Damon can adjust. Once fully in, Graham takes a minute, hand skimming up Damon's front again to enclose his wrists, tight, and Damon kicks a leg up, pressing it into the small of Graham's back, gasping as it result in Graham somehow moving deeper into him.

Damon's shivery, trembling, and Graham begins rolling his hips in slow, torturous motions, fucking Damon thoroughly. His hand, rough from years of guitar, encloses Damon's cock, and the effect of it all compounds, so Damon's struck with intense pleasure, coming so soon and with such a guttural sound that he would've been embarrassed if he could bring himself to care at all. He doesn't though - he's carried on a wave of sensation, skin prickling and mind whirling as Graham keeps thrusting into him, hitting his prostate every so often so he's jelly-like, all proclivity for responsiveness gone, except simply to feel.

Graham thrusts roughly, his hips moving more stutteringly, before he comes too, riding out the pleasure, and groaning in a way that manages to make the space between Damon's legs swirl with low heat. Graham lies heavily across Damon for a while as he gets his bearings again, fingers uncurling from Damon's wrists. Damon feels pliant and sated - for the most part. Fuck, he'd never have guessed how good that could've been. How had they never done that? Graham's kissing him lightly, little pecks here and there, scattered across him like confetti, following the whims of whatever part of him seems to enamour Graham the most at that specific instant.

Damon clears his throat, and speaks, surprised at the gravel and husk of it. "Gra, Gra - that was so good." He's still trying to fully regulate his breathing, swallows thickly. He places his hand on Graham's cheek, imploring him to meet his gaze just through the contact, and it works, like their impulses are attuned entirely. "When we get back?" Graham nods, head tilting, encouraging him to continue. "Can we go again?"

Graham chuckles, lunging up playfully to kiss Damon. "It would be a pleasure." It's pitched deep, deeper than his normal speaking voice, and Damon shivers.


End file.
